


Till Death do us Part is Quitter Talk

by katikacreations, Swiftblight



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 1987), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Coming Out, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Gay Rights, Ghosts, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Master/Servant, Not Canon Compliant, Paparazzi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Power Imbalance, Unchecked capitalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-13 23:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16901922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katikacreations/pseuds/katikacreations, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swiftblight/pseuds/Swiftblight
Summary: And Scrooge McDuck is no quitter. He has his beloved Duckworth back from the dead, and he intends to keep him, even if that means he has to become an amateur wizard, dodge the scandal-hungry paparazzi, and cope with well-meaning, overzealous grand-nephews who think he's a sad, closeted old homosexual in need of rescuing from his own angst.He's a perfectly happy closeted old bisexual who doesn't need any rescuing, thanks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP. The main story focus is on Scrooge and Duckworth as a couple, the other ships I listed are just mentioned in passing (though who knows). Just cleaned up the formatting on chapter 1, and made a couple of minor changes.

McDuck Manor was an uncharacteristically minimalist Queen Anne-style mansion. The original construction had been completed in 1903, and the grand estate had been designed to accommodate the then-current Clan McDuck, with room to grow. Three wings, each with a full master suite, one for each of the McDuck siblings plus space for any extended family, spouses or children they might acquire or produce.

Although it had been state of the art at the time of its building, the mansion had been renovated five times in its life, 1915, 1953, 1970, 1987 and 2005. Each renovation had offered various modern conveniences and improvements, and so despite the home’s age, it had little to envy in comparison to more modern dwellings. It had been built for a man who demanded solid stone where some might have cut corners and resorted to plywood and drywall, so it had survived catastrophic mudslides, forest fires and earthquakes without so much as a scratch, while other mansions along the wealthy and picturesque Calisota coast had been reduced to matchsticks and rubble.

But the fact was that a family had not lived in McDuck Manor since the 1930s. The mansion had spent a majority of its life only sporadically occupied by five people at most, and never the two or three families of children, parents and grandparents that had been originally envisioned. Lacking family to house, it became a repository for hoarded treasure, artwork and mementos from a life lived one adventure after another. In many ways it was more museum than house, and for long stretches of time it had stood empty of life entirely.

It was a historic institution, it was titanic, it was beautiful, it was ornate and eloquent all at once, it was…

 

“In _shambles_ ,” Duckworth moaned, adding another line on his list of repairs, touch-ups and cleaning tasks he desired to carry out in the near future. The ghost had occupied the living room outside of Scrooge’s master suite, and Scrooge couldn’t help but be amused by all his moaning and groaning about the state of the manor. It wasn’t _that_ bad!

“I saw homes directly bombed in the Blitzkrieg that were in better shape than this,” Duckworth insisted.  

“Don’t you think you’re being a _wee_ bit melodramatic?” Scrooge asked, smiling from his spot on the sofa.

“I’m dead!” Duckworth threw his arms out, his voice dropping several octaves. Somewhere overhead, a single light bulb popped. “The dead are supposed to be melodramatic! If I have to be a ghost I may as well get to enjoy it.”

“What you are is _silly_ ,” Scrooge laughed, his voice oozing with fondness in a way that would have embarrassed him had anyone caught him at it. Duckworth looked away, avoiding eye contact, acting as if there was something very important in his notes that required his immediate attention.

 

Normally Scrooge would have been at the office, you didn’t get to be the world’s richest man by taking days off! But Duckworth had barely been back with him in the realm of the living for 24 hours, and Scrooge couldn’t bring himself to leave the ghost unattended. What if he took his eyes off him and he vanished? The money could manage itself for awhile until Scrooge sorted this ghost business out.

Since yesterday’s failed attempt at a birthday party, Scrooge had spent his time eyebrows deep in every book he owned on magic, trying to unravel what Black Arts Beagle had done, how permanent it was, and if it _wasn’t_ permanent, how to make it so. He had lost Duckworth once already. He wasn’t going to lose the man a second time.

Scrooge had been about to say something else when the triplets wandered in. Blast. Was it already past four? They were home from school. So much for teasing Duckworth. That was a little too personal to do in front of them, even if it was likely to go over their heads.

 

"We heard demonic roaring, did Duckworth go crazy?" Dewey asked, "Do we need to call an exorcist?"

"Nah," Scrooge replied. "He's just throwing a fit aboot the state the mansion's in."

"Is it not supposed to be in Calisota?" Louie asked.

"Very witty, young Sir," Duckworth said dryly. "The mansion is a _mess_. I can't believe I was only gone seven years. This level of destruction and filth seems---"

"To be honest," Scrooge interrupted Duckworth's commentary, "Most of the damage only started about five months ago when these three and Donald moved in. It wasn’t that bad before."

 

Although Duckworth’s ghostly appearance didn’t change, the lights in the room began flickering wildly, and a deep growling sound filled the air. “Really?” Duckworth said, voice straining with barely contained anger. “ _So much mess in so little time?_ ”

“Uhh, you know what? We’ve got...homework---” Huey didn’t even bother to finish his sentence as he grabbed at his brothers, and the three boys tripped over each other in their rush to leave the room at the same time. Duckworth watched them leave, and Scrooge gave an amused little snort as the lights returned to normal and the growling ceased once the boys were out of earshot.

 

“I wonder how long you’ll be able to keep them afraid of you before they realize what a creampuff you are?” Scrooge asked, getting to his feet and stretching, his back popping. “Come on. Let’s go check on the binding circles. I want to watch what the runes do as the sun sets.”

“Creampuff?” Duckworth repeated to himself, a touch indignantly, though he gathered up his papers and his pen and floated after Scrooge dutifully.

 

***

 

While it was true that Scrooge hated magic and in most cases, considered it a shortcut used by people trying to get out of good old-fashioned hard work, that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t _use it_ as needed. This was a case of ‘as needed’. There were some things, after all, that only magic could do. The problem was that no matter how many books he read or talismans he recovered from ancient ruins, Scrooge was no magician. He could follow a spell the same way one followed a recipe from a cookbook, but if it was anything overly complicated he would fare no better than Black Arts Beagle had. Scrooge would, eventually, have to contract a professional of some sort (and pay them). That or _become_ a bloody wizard himself, rather than just stumbling his way through like the amateur he was.

At any rate, with his current level of knowledge he’d set up a protective circle in his bedroom last night, carved it into the wooden floorboards and activated it with a small offering of blood, ignoring Duckworth’s incessant hand-wringing and complaining about how he was irreparably damaging the floors Duckworth had spent a lifetime polishing and waxing. Scrooge knew that the pentagram was working when the ghost became stronger inside it’s protective boundaries, but unsurprisingly, when sunrise came, Duckworth had started to fade. He was still present - but ghosts were never at their strongest during daylight hours. Would he have vanished entirely if Scrooge hadn’t put anything down? Scrooge couldn’t be sure. But the pentagram in the bedroom was a little extra insurance that Duckworth had something to cling to in the land of the living.

So that morning, after the boys had left for school, Scrooge had rolled up the carpet in his study and made a similar pentagram there. Once he was certain the ink and blood were dry he’d covered it up and gone and added a third one in Duckworth’s old room, and the resulting triangle had created an area of…Well, this just showed how Scrooge _wasn’t_ a wizard, because he knew there was probably a technical term for what he’d created, but he had no clue what to call it. A _region_ between the three pentagrams that enhanced Duckworth’s connection to the corporeal world. Inside of it, the ghost was stronger, found it easier to manifest himself as a ghostly vision, even during the day. Outside of it, when the sun was up, he was barely visible and he could hardly make his presence felt more than a chilly breeze.

As for how much stronger that _region_ would make Duckworth during the night, Scrooge didn’t know, but he would find out.

 

***

 

“How are you feeling?” Scrooge asked, pacing back and forth in his study. The sun felt like it was stubbornly sticking to the horizon, a tiny sliver of gold that refused to drop away from the edge of the world.

“The same way I was feeling five minutes ago when you last asked,” Duckworth replied. “Please sit down. I don’t imagine the results will be that dramatic.”

 

Scrooge gave a huff of annoyance but did as Duckworth asked, though he scowled the whole time, arms crossed over his chest.

 

“Oh, don’t sulk. You’re too old for sulking,” Duckworth said as he settled in Scrooge’s lap, draping his arms around the duck’s neck. Duckworth could, with some effort, make himself semi-solid, but they had learned through experimentation that he could not _feel_ the things that he touched in any meaningful way, inanimate objects were cold, living things were hot.

Scrooge hadn’t expected to get a lap full of ice-cold ghost, and he shivered, feathers standing on end as his skin prickled with the chill. The inability to touch was supremely frustrating, but he tried to stroke the ghost’s face anyway, focusing on placing his hand on what looked like Duckworth’s cheek. He felt the pins-and-needles numbing sensation surrounding his hand as it sank into Duckworth’s essence.

“Please try not to be too disappointed if the spell doesn’t work the way you’re hoping,” Duckworth said

“You don’t expect much from my efforts, do you?”

“It’s not that,” Duckworth said. “It’s just… As much as I admire you, Sir, there are some things even you can’t do.”

 

 _You can’t cheat death_ , _rich and poor, brave and cowardly, it comes for all of us sooner or later_ , Scrooge thought bitterly.

“We’ll see aboot that,” Scrooge said. The grandfather clock in the corner began to chime the hour and Scrooge watched Duckworth intently.  

 

“I think something’s gone wrong,” Duckworth said, his voice a deep growl. The sun had finally set and, contrary to the specter’s predictions, there _had_ been a noticeable change. In Scrooge’s lap was no longer the familiar form of his deceased butler, but instead the more ghastly form Duckworth had occasionally taken on during the party: a black, shadowy thing with a horned skull for a head and glowing eyes. Scrooge, who had dealt with many a monster in his life, was not frightened by this development. What _did_ interest him was the fact that this monstrous form felt… almost as if it had weight in his lap. That unpleasant ghostly chill was still there, but there was a sense of mass as well!

 

“Interesting,” Scrooge said, mostly to himself, as he began to curiously start patting at Duckworth’s sides, feeling at him to see how solid he was. At first brush he seemed solid, but when Scrooge applied more pressure his hands started to sink into the opaque-looking blackness that made up Duckworth’s body.

“McDuck?” the booming quality of Duckworth’s demonic voice sounded comical when paired with how uncertain he sounded.

“Yes, yes, what is it? I’m no hurting you, am I?”

“No, not at all, that feels… Nice. It’s like before, just more intense,” Duckworth replied. “Also I seem to have transformed into my… other form.”

“Yes, I’d noticed.”

“...and that doesn’t...bother you?”

“Why should it bother me?” Scrooge asked absently, “I mean obviously I’d prefer to be looking at your real face, but considering you’ve come back from the dead, I dinnae think I get to be so fussy aboot it, now do I? I’ll take what I can get.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Duckworth sighed. The ghost tentatively reached out with his black clawed hands and cupped Scrooge’s face, touching the old duck as if he were afraid he might break. For once in his life, Scrooge did not complain, patiently enduring Duckworth’s awkward fumbling, letting the ghost run his claws through his feathers and stroke his cheek whiskers.

 

After a few minutes of allowing himself to be petted, Scrooge put an end to it. “While this does _seem_ closer to a solution, I think we’re still not quite there. It’s the same problem as before. You cannae _really_ feel and when I try to grab you and I just go through you.” Scrooge reached up and tapped a finger against the snout end of the skull that made Duckworth’s face in this form. ”On top of that, don’t think I can snog you like this.”

 

Duckworth burst into laughter and his arms extended, stretched longer than was physically possible. They coiled around Scrooge like a pair of shadowy snakes. “Oh, but we should test that just to be sure, don’t you think?”

 

***

 

The House Rules, Scrooge thought, were simple to understand and should not have been difficult to obey. Do not trespass on Scrooge's personal space, and for everything else, see Mrs. Beakley. Simple! They had worked when Donald and Della had been younger, so they should work now for this current crop of children! So why in blazes did he find himself staring down a quartet of (uninvited, currently unwanted) ducklings in his study, all looking as if they'd just seen a ghost?

 

To be fair, they _had_ just seen a ghost, for approximately ten seconds anyway. Duckworth had most unhelpfully vanished when the children had come bursting into the study yammering on about something or another. _Coward_ , Scrooge thought, grimacing. _Leave me to handle this alone, will you?_

 

"Well go on, spit it oot!" Scrooge barked at the kids, crossing his arms defensively. "No that I owe you little beasts any explanation when you cannae be arsed to knock on a door before you come stampeding in!" Normally he made a half hearted attempt to control his language around the children, but his mood was too foul at the moment to curb his tongue.

"Were...were you just kissing Mr. Duckworth?!" Webby asked. Scrooge really didn't want to answer, but he could already tell that he would be better off in the long run if he said _something_ rather than let the children's imaginations run away with them.

"As much as one can kiss a semi-corporeal spirit, yes. Or, well, we were giving it a try." _And then the four of you interrupted_ , Scrooge thought sourly.

"You can kiss ghosts?!" Was apparently what Webby took away from his response, "When you figure it out can you teach me, in case I ever need to?!"

"Wait, you're gay?" Huey asked, and Scrooge wasn't sure if this was a better line of questioning.

"This explains so much," Louie chimed in, and Scrooge could feel new wrinkles etching their way into his forehead as his face scrunched up. What did _that_ mean?

"Uh, what exactly does this explain?" Dewey asked. _Exactly what I'd like to know_ , Scrooge thought.

"Duh! Why he's not married even though he's infinity years old and has like, a gabazillion dollars. You couldn't get married if you were gay back in Olden Times," Louie explained with an air of confidence. "So you had to like, be gay in secret."

"I'm not _gay_!" Scrooge protested, "I've been involved with more women than men!"

"...But that means you _do_ like men, right? That's you confirming that?" Louie asked, wide eyed and looking actually interested in what was happening in front of him for the first time since Scrooge had met the boy. _You’re a wee sadist in the making, aren’t ye?_

"It's none of your bloody business!" Scrooge bellowed, bouncing to his feet. "I'm an old man, leave me in peace!"

"But—but this is great! We should celebrate!" Huey said.

"Celebrate what?! That you're sticking your beaks into my private life?"

"That um, we've learned something important about you? That we're growing closer as a family? "

"Ten feet apart with a dining room table between us is close enough, thanks!"

 

***

"I think it's kinda cool, Scrooge having some kind of forbidden love affair," Louie admitted, from his position sprawled across sofa #5, in living room #3, which he claimed was the most comfortable one in the mansion. Therefore Living Room #3 had become the kids' default gathering place. (Living Room #3 had once been a part of their grandmother Hortense’s quarters, not that it had mattered in decades.)

"Why exactly is it 'cool'?" Dewey asked, doing air quotes. "It just seems sad to me. I mean-- sure he's here now but Duckworth is kinda...you know, _dead_. He’s not really back."

"Which is sadder: Old man who had a secret gay love affair with his butler who died, or old man who never fell in love, lived his entire life alone and just sits around all day and night counting his money--- did I mention the alone part?"

"Okay, when you put it that way..." Dewey admitted "Why do you think it's a _love affair_ though? I mean we saw them… kissing but so what?"

" _Dude_ ," Louie rolled his eyes as he sat up from his spot on the sofa, "Duckworth came back from wherever ghosts go and protected Scrooge at the party. And now he's just hanging around the mansion and follows Scrooge around all the time. Also if _you_ wanted to kiss a dude don't you think there might be some easier options out there than trying to kiss a ghost? Especially if you're rich. No way. They're totally a thing--- or they were a thing and now they're a thing again. We've got a ghost great-uncle-in-law that's haunting the house we live in."

"I… Yeah, okay. I guess I didn't really think it out," Louie said, scratching his head. " _Ghost great-uncle-in-law…_ "

 

"God, we are going to have the most amazing Halloween party this year," Huey said as he wandered back into the conversation with cans of soda for his brothers. "You _heard_ that stuff Glomgold and Ma Beagle were saying. Duckworth threw great parties-- I wonder if he can invite other ghosts? I'm finally going to get my Junior Woodchuck Paranormal Investigation badge!"

"He threw great parties and Scrooge let him _._ Scrooge _let him spend money_ , _"_ Louie said, "Honestly I don't think I need more proof than that. Case closed. Obviously in love."

 

"What are we talking about?" Webby asked, joining the conversation now that she'd been freed from her daily home-schooling sessions.

"Uncle Scrooge and Mr. Duckworth," Dewey said, "Hey--- You knew Duckworth when he was alive right?"

"Yeah," Webby laughed, curling a strand of hair around one finger absently, "But I was six when he died. I don't remember that much... Oh! He used to have tea parties with me and my dolls," she paused, apparently realizing that this wasn't the kind of hot information the triplets were hoping to get out of her, "Uh. He was kinda old by then. He didn't really do a lot of--- typical butler-y stuff. Honestly I remember Mr. McDuck taking care of him more than the other way around," she admitted, frowning like she found fault in her own recollection. "He went everywhere with Mr. McDuck though. And he and Granny were always arguing about the cleaning."

"The cleaning? Mrs. Beakley keeps the house spotless," Louie protested.

"Not Duckworth-clean," Webby laughed. "She'd clean something and then he'd get up and clean it again and then they'd fight about it--- I think he wasn't supposed to be cleaning stuff anymore."

"So… What happened?" Louie asked. "Did he just...get old and sick and die?"

"Well...yeah."

 

***

 

The children didn't ask him any questions about what they'd seen and days passed. Duckworth began making appearances around the house again in the daytime. Now if only he could find some way to make Duckworth more solid... There had to be something, an artifact, or a spell that he could hire a witch to cast.

 

"You know that it's okay, right?" Huey said to him one day, head poking over the edge of his desk. Scrooge leveled a glare at him.

"Rule number one--"

"I knocked! You didn't answer!" Huey replied.

"That usually means I'm busy," Scrooge muttered, turning the page in his book. Huey walked around to the front of his desk to force himself into Scrooge's line of sight.

"Yeah, but what if you were unconscious, or dying in here because nobody ever checks on you?"

"Someone is going to be one of those two things very shortly if you don't leave me with my reading, lad," Scrooge groused, but the threat sounded hollow to his own ears – apparently not to Huey though, as the boy laughed nervously.

 

"Right, yeah, ok," Huey said, "Sure. But um, I just wanted to make sure that you know it's okay, and that we still love and respect you and stuff right?"

"What's okay? What are you going on and on aboot?" Scrooge asked with a sigh, taking his spectacles off to rub the space between his eyes.

"Um, that you're gay! Or-- bi, you know. It's okay! You don't need to be ashamed of it or hide it."

"Bye?" Scrooge repeated, looking up from his book for the first time to squint at Huey in bewilderment.

"Uh—yeah, bisexual? You know-- you like ladies and guys?"

"I don't like anyone," Scrooge replied sourly, "I like money."

"I don't… I don't think there's a pride celebration for that one."

"It's called Wall Street."

"Was… Was that a joke?" Huey asked, trying to figure out if he was being scolded, made fun of, or having some kind of weird family bonding moment.

"Yes," Scrooge said with a sigh.

"It was sort of funny?" Huey offered helpfully.

"Are we done?" Scrooge asked, though he had a feeling the answer was 'no'.

 

"Well, I mean, are you super busy? I can go if you're super busy," Huey said, his hands crumpling the front hem of his shirt together nervously as he fidgeted.  Honestly! These children had no idea how to stand still and speak to someone directly. They were going to get eaten alive by the world if Scrooge didn't do something about it and fix these appalling habits of theirs. "I mean, I know you're reading, and you didn't answer my knocking, but you're _always_ busy and this seemed _less_ busy than when you're at the office or on the phone or in a meeting or--"

"Fine, fine, you've made your point," Scrooge grumbled, closing his book. "And stop saying 'well', 'I mean' and 'you know'! You're just adding a bunch of words to what you're saying for no reason--"

 

Huey abruptly stood up straighter and put his hands at his sides, tensing up noticeably. While that wasn't exactly what Scrooge wanted from him, he could remember when _he_ was a lad he'd always addressed his father and mother with respect, and while he couldn't remember being _afraid_ of them there had always been a sense of distance that he didn't see with young people and their children these days.  The boys _loved_ Donald, but to them he was a _person_ , their _friend_. Scrooge had loved his father, but to him the man had been a pillar of strength. An authority figure. He wasn’t someone Scrooge would have shared his personal life with, unless it somehow affected the family. In retrospect he knew his father had been a man, too, with weaknesses and strengths, who had lived and died in poverty, but he was certain that feeling of reverence towards him was something he would take with him to his grave.

 

"No need to look so nervous," Scrooge said, tapping one finger against his desk in time with the grandfather clock nearby that was marking the passage of seconds with every _tik-tok_. "I'm not going to bite your head aff. I just want you to stop and think before you speak, and when you're ready, say what's on your mind. Got it?"

"Yessir," Huey replied, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. The boy didn't relax entirely but he looked less like a store window mannequin.

"Why does all of this matter to you so much?" Scrooge asked, trying not to feel suspicious, but a lifetime of paranoia made it hard not to see ulterior motives behind everything.

"I—" Huey stopped himself immediately and studied the desk between them intently for several moments, and Scrooge waited patiently for the boy to marshal his thoughts. "Because it's the right thing to do," Huey said at last. "You've lived most of your life hiding this--"

"Hiding _this_ —what, exactly?" Scrooge asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs.

"I—um. Well--" Huey stammered, until Scrooge cleared his throat, reminding him to think before he spoke. "I've never read anything about you being—with men, and you're---" Huey paused to grope for the best word. "---historic! If people knew, they would have said something about it."

"Aye. And they didn't know because I kept my private business _private_ ," Scrooge said decisively. "That's the way we did things back then, and I think it was better. Nowadays everyone is like that Mark Beaks, looking to get rich by getting famous for nothing. Showing your bum aff on the internet shouldn't be enough to make you a millionaire, no matter how nice a bum you've got!"

"Bum is like...your butt, right?" Huey asked.

"Yes," Scrooge groaned, "Anyway, I'm famous enough! I don't need people gossiping aboot me even more--” and then his cell phone rang and he fished it from his pocket, snapping it open. "McDuck. No. Don't sell. Have Launchpad bring a car around, I'll be at the office in ten minutes." Scrooge hung up and got to his feet, set his hat on his head and hooked his cane into the crook of his arm.

"Are you seriously going to work right now?" Huey asked, "It's like 11 o'clock at night."

"It's only 10:53," Scrooge replied as he headed for the door, "Anyway, the financial world never sleeps! But-- you should be, shouldn't you? Don't you have school tomorrow? Go on!" he ushered Huey out of his study with a wave of his cane.

 

***

 

Driving back and forth between Duckburg and Los Angeles wasn’t too bad, Donald had done it so many times at this point he barely noticed the 6 hours go by. It was nearly one in the morning when he arrived back at McDuck Manor though, so he parked his station wagon outside of the garage and went inside through the back door, not wanting to wake anyone. He felt a little bit guilty for not taking the kids with him when he ran for it, wanting to avoid his uncle’s foul mood on his birthday. Scrooge liked the boys better than he liked him, Donald was pretty sure, so he thought they would be fine… Besides, Louie got carsick on rides longer than an hour, Huey had band practice and Donald _knew_ he didn’t want to miss it, and Dewey… Well, if he took one of them he had to take all three, those were just the rules. So it was probably best to leave the kids at home.

Anyway, _The Enchanted Tiki Room_ , a cabaret that Jose and Panchito ran in Anaheim wasn’t exactly the kind of place that Donald wanted to take his boys. Maybe when they were older? Nah, Donald had already decided that they weren’t allowed to date until after he was dead. Easing the mud room door closed silently, Donald used the flashlight on his phone to navigate. His room now was the same room he’d lived in decades ago and he knew where the creaky floorboards were by heart, but the kids tended to leave toys everywhere in the part of the house they’d claimed for themselves and he didn’t want to step on something in the dark. Knowing his luck, he’d trip and fall down the stairs and wake everyone up, not to mention wind up in a full body cast again.

 

He navigated around a mine field of toy cars just outside of his bedroom door, already thinking about the earful he was going to give his boys for the mess, when he accidentally set his left foot down on one of the squeakiest parts of the hallway-- and there was no noise.

“That’s strange,” he said to no one, turning in a circle while scowling at the floor. With each step Donald braced himself for the boards to squeak but there was nothing. “The floor always squeaks here.”

“Not anymore,” a deep growling voice said, “I fixed it.”

“Oh,” Donald said, “That’s nice of you, thanks--” Maybe it was the reasonable and polite tone of voice the mysterious speaker had used, but it took Donald a full five seconds to realize he had no idea who had answered him, and also he’d just done a full 360 degree circle and hadn’t seen anyone else in the hallway--

 

 _There’s no ghosts in Uncle Scrooge’s house_ , Donald thought as he slowly raised the flashlight’s beam, heart pounding wildly and feathers standing on end as he peered into the darkness around him. _Uncle Scrooge’s house is totally ghost and curse-proof--_ He found himself looking into a pair of glowing red eyes, set into a white skull, hovering about six feet off the ground.

“I’ve missed you, young master Donald.”

 

***

 

Donald screaming in the middle of the night loud enough to rouse the legions of Hell was unfortunately not a new occurrence in McDuck manor. Scrooge considered just rolling over and going back to sleep, but the sudden way the scream cut off worried him. Climbing out of bed, he pulled on his dressing gown and grabbed his cane before jogging towards where he felt the sound had come from. The hall lights were on and Donald was laid out flat on the floor, seemingly unconscious, surrounded by an array of toy cars. A guilty-looking Duckworth loomed over him.

 

“What’s all this then?” Scrooge asked, hands on his hips.

“I was so eager to see Donald again, I think I forgot...how I look at night,” Duckworth said, sounding and looking like a scolded puppy, rather than a towering demonic spirit made of shadow and bone. “I greeted him and he tripped on the children’s toys.”

“I cannae believe I got oot of bed for this,” Scrooge sighed. The children hadn’t woken up of course, they’d long ago become immune to the sounds of Donald’s night terrors. “He’ll be fine,” Scrooge said, “He’s got a head harder than a diamond… I’m going back to bed. I have meetings in the morning.”

“Of course,” Duckworth replied, watching Donald’s unconscious form uneasily.

“ _You’ll_ be fine,” Scrooge said, yawning as he shuffled away.

 

***

 

Donald’s head hurt. He was laying on the ground. Things were… Bright. Had he fallen asleep? Was it morning? He sat up and looked around, and immediately wished he hadn’t. The thing he’d seen before - he remembered now, it had come looming out of the dark, with eyes on fire and bleached white bone for a face-- was still there, huddled on the ground a few feet away from him.  

 

Donald opened his mouth to inhale, ready to scream again as he backpedaled away from the thing, when it suddenly moved towards him and in a blink of an eye, something had clamped his beak shut and all he could produce was a muffled shout.  _Let me go, you monster!_ He tried to scream, but all that came out was _wehhmegohuoomuonr!_ which was pretty unintelligible even by Donald’s usual standard of speech impediment.

 

“Please calm down,” the thing growled at him, which was weird because that wasn’t the sort of thing monsters and spookums usually said when they attacked. “I’m not going to hurt you,” it continued. “You know me.”

“Dukwooth?” Donald tried to say, no longer screaming or struggling.

“Yes,” the thing replied, releasing his beak and helping Donald to his feet. “I _am_ a ghost, but… Well, it’s a long story. I died but I never really left. I couldn’t just abandon Mr. McDuck.”

 

Donald didn’t know what to say, but that sure _sounded_ like the sort of thing Duckworth would have said, always putting that selfish old coot’s needs before his own.

 

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Donald said, smoothing down his tunic. “He never did.”

“That might be true,” the ghost said, “But regardless it makes me happy to stay by his side. It’s not a question of merit.”

“So what happened?” Donald asked.

“It’s a long story, come, let’s get out of the hallway.”

 

***

 

 _A long story_ wasn’t exactly right, the tale of how Black Arts Beagle had tried to summon a demon and gotten Duckworth caught in his magic web instead wasn’t really long, it was just convoluted and confusing. After explaining, Duckworth had left Donald to get a few hours of rest, but he hadn’t been able to sleep a wink of course. How could he knowing there was some kind of ghost roaming around the house? He hadn’t been entirely convinced that the ghost was Duckworth until sunrise came and he saw the monster transform with his own eyes, going from a shadowy horned beast to that familiar face he knew.

 

Seeing Duckworth for the first time in… How long had it been? Nine years? It hit him like a gut punch, he couldn’t stop staring at him, mouth hanging open. “Duckworth? Is that _really_ you?”

“Yes, it really is. Did you not believe me before?”

“No, it’s not that I didn’t believe you--- I mean, I _did_ not believe you, but not because of you, it’s because of me,” Donald tripped over his own words, his throat closing up as feelings all tried to fight their way out of his chest at the same time, making it hard to breathe. “You’re… dead. You died years ago. And good things like-- A friendly ghost--- Never happen to me--”

“Hush now, that’s enough of that,” Duckworth said, sitting down beside Donald. The ghost felt cold as ice but Donald was so grateful for his presence that he didn’t care that he felt like he was sitting inside an icebox. “I know you think that fate is always out to get you, that you have worse luck than anyone else--”

“I do!”

“And maybe it’s true,” Duckworth said, “But it isn’t as if _nothing_ good has ever happened to you either.”

“Sometimes it sure feels like it, though!”

“You’re being melodramatic,” Duckworth said, trying not to laugh at Donald.

“One of my best friends has come back from the dead! I think I’m allowed to be a little emotional,” Donald huffed. “So, what do you do now?”

“Well, I was planning on making breakfast for everyone.”

“You don’t have to do that! You’re dead, Duckworth! You’re not Scrooge’s slave anymore! You can do whatever you want!”

“Well, what I want is to make breakfast,” Duckworth said with an arch of his eyebrows that told Donald this wasn’t a fight he could win.

“Okay… Well, can I help you then? I can catch you up on what’s been going on.”

 

***

 

 _It's the right thing to do_ , Huey had said. Bollocks. What was so _right_ about spreading his personal life out for the whole world to see? Scrooge found himself returning to the thought time and again long after the conversation had ended.  _It's the right thing to do._ Well. Maybe he should let the boy speak his mind and see what he had to say about it, rather than cut him off. That was the only way he could resolve the subject in his mind and understand what the Devil Huey was talking about.

 

"Beakley, the next time you see Huey, send him to my study."

"He is literally in the next room," Beakley replied through gritted teeth, vacuum in one hand and duster in the other. She'd gotten militant with her daily cleaning ever since Duckworth's return, and had resumed petitioning Scrooge hourly to hire additional staff for the mansion. "Ask him yourself!"

 

Scrooge continued on his way to his study without stopping. "Huey! Study! Now!" he shouted, expecting to be heard and obeyed. The rapid _slapslapslap_ of duckling feet on the hardwood told him Huey was on his way.

 

Scrooge took a seat in his favorite armchair and laced his hands together in his lap. When Huey stood there nervously, like he didn't know what to do with himself, Scrooge sighed and gestured towards the other armchair across from his own.

"Sit down, Lad. You're no in trouble."

"Oh! Okay," Huey didn't look like he entirely believed him, but he did climb into the chair and waited to see what Scrooge wanted from him. "So….."

"...The other day you said the reason you were so… fired up aboot my relationship with Duckworth was because… Telling me you accepted me was... The right thing to do. You never did explain what you meant by that to my satisfaction." Scrooge did his best to interpret what he'd understood of their prior conversation. He wasn't sure if he had it right--- but then the way Huey was nodding at him told him he'd gotten that much, at least.

 

"Yeah! Okay, so, I've been thinking about how to explain this. Things are a lot different now than they were when you were our age right?" Huey began, and Scrooge resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead just nodded his head for Huey to continue.

"Right. So...I know that you say you're not ashamed, but _why_ is it so important for you to keep your private life, uh, private?" Huey asked.

 

Scrooge hadn't been expecting to be on the receiving end of the questioning here, and the urge to end the conversation immediately and toss Huey out was… Strong. But he felt a cold chill tickle across the back of his neck and realized that Duckworth was there, listening. Apparently not visible, because Huey didn't give any indication that he could see him.  _Why_ was it so important? Scrooge had never given it any thought. He frowned and eyed a nearby corner of the Persian carpet. It was a bit ragged-- Duckworth had been after him to get it mended professionally for years.

 

"I'm no usually one for long bouts of introspective navel-gazing," Scrooge muttered.

"I have no idea what that means, but okay," Huey replied cheerfully, "Take your time."

Scrooge heaved an enormous sigh. "I suppose… because if you're… Different, people knowing aboot it can be dangerous," Scrooge began slowly. He saw Huey opening his mouth to speak and pointed his cane at him imperiously. "And don't go telling me it's no dangerous, because it still is!"

"Okay, that's true, but like, _everything_ ever can be dangerous and also, counterpoint: when has something being dangerous _ever_ stopped Scrooge McDuck from doing it?"

 

Scrooge closed his own mouth with a sharp _clak_ , scowling at his grand-nephew for a moment. "Fine. Danger isn't the real reason then, because as you've so astutely pointed out, danger has never stopped me from doing what I want. However danger to others around me...For a time there were laws against these things---"

"Because we all know that you always obey the law and super rich people never get away with breaking the rules," Louie said, sauntering into the study and making himself at home on one of the sofas without looking up from his cell phone.

"What the--" Scrooge almost let loose with some choice expletives, because he was _certain_ he had closed the door solidly behind Huey, but no, it was waving back and forth in the breeze. A breeze that sent a cold chill up along Scrooge's fully clothed arm and down along his spine. _Duckworth...did you..._

"Louie!" Scrooge snapped, turning to glare at the boy, who was now playing some kind of game on his phone.

"And Dewey!" Dewey chimed in, from the spot he'd camped out at Scrooge's desk. He spun around in a circle with Scrooge's office chair. When the blazes had he gotten there?!

"I don't recall inviting the two of you to join this conversation!" Scrooge growled at them, back teeth grinding together.

"You didn't, Duckworth told us it was a family conversation and we should come help out," Louie said, not looking up from his phone. "So what are we talking about?"

 

 _How to banish unhelpful ghosts on the cheap_ , Scrooge thought acidly, glaring around the study but aside from the occasional cold chills he felt, Duckworth was nowhere to be seen. _You set me up for this torture and you don't even have the decency to make yourself present and help out._

 

"Um, I'm trying to explain to Uncle Scrooge why we feel like he might be happier if he was like—- _out_ ," Huey said.

"I would be delighted to be oot," Scrooge groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

"What, seriously?!" Louie said, sitting bolt upright and dropping his phone.

"Oot of this room, oot of this conversation, oot of this planet!" Scrooge clarified, though he had no idea what Huey had meant by _out_ either. "But fine, let's just get on with it, since you three seem so keen on talking me into an early grave aboot this." _At least if we're both dead I can try to strangle Duckworth for his meddling. Can a ghost strangle another ghost?_

"So, right, okay," Huey said, "I was asking Uncle Scrooge why he feels like it's so important to keep his personal life secret."

 

Scrooge massaged his temples and tried to recover his lost train of thought. "It would damage my image if people knew the truth," Scrooge said at last, "They would think that I was… Weak, a sissy. And that would damage the companies that belong to me. Stocks would drop, investors would sell---"

 

"And _that's_ why the right thing to do is to tell people," Huey explained.

"You've lost me," Scrooge said. “When is losing money the right thing to do?”

"No, no, not the losing money part. The part about telling people. You're _not_ weak, you're not a--- sissy, the fact that you love a guy doesn't mean any of that! You're a great example that proves that gay people can be just as strong as anybody else," Huey said. "And there are people out there who aren't like you, Uncle Scrooge, who _are_ scared and ashamed, but if people everywhere knew about you then--- Then that proves those hateful people wrong. It gives somebody who's scared a hero to look up to that's like them, even when everybody is telling them that they're wrong and different."

 

Unbidden, Scrooge found himself thinking Duckworth's family. Duckworth had tried to tell them about the two of them in 1987. They never spoke to the man again after that. They hadn't even turned up to bicker over his will when he'd died. Duckworth had never complained about it, of course. Duckworth rarely complained about anything.

 

"Alright, fine, I get it," Scrooge sighed heavily. "So what exactly do you want me to _do_ , take oot an ad in the bloody paper and announce that I’m a homosexual to the whole world?"

"Don’t be ridiculous, nobody reads newspapers anymore," Louie said, back on his phone.

"I read the paper!" Scrooge protested.

"And then you burn the paper for warmth in your office because you never installed central heating, we know," Louie said. “I’m sure the Duckburg Times is glad they’ve got one last subscriber.”

"Watch it lad, you're fixing to get yourself a thumping," Scrooge growled.

"I'm just _saying_ , print newspapers are a dead media form," Louie said with a shrug.

"Next month is Pride month," Huey said, "Maybe we can go to an event then."

  
_What the devil is pride month?_ Scrooge wondered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Goldie O'Gilt makes an appearance, and Scrooge becomes determined to better protect his ghost from outside interference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've rewritten a few scenes from “The Golden Lagoon of White Agony Plains” because where the hell was Duckworth? And Donald? This is unbetaed but I really wanted to get this uploaded.

Pride Month, it turned out, was an excuse for homosexuals to get together in noisy groups while dressed in tacky outfits, get drunk, listen to awful music, dance lewdly, and just generally make a public nuisance of themselves. Also there were parades.

The point, Scrooge assumed, was that they were doing it to prove that they  _ could _ . To show themselves off to the public, loudly and without shame, and force people to acknowledge their existence, while staying in a large group to protect themselves. There was nothing illegal about these Pride activities, and anyone who had ever had the misfortune to wander through a modern college campus would have seen men and women getting up to much of the same foolishness too – only without the political motivation.

Sitting at the breakfast table and browsing his search results on his tablet, he was a bit aghast by the things he was finding.  _ This _ was what the boys thought he should go participate in?

"Bloody Sodom and Gomorrah in my own backyard," Scrooge muttered into his coffee.

"What?" Donald asked, frowning with his entire face. He reached over and bodily took the tablet from Scrooge – who didn't put up a fight, he'd rather not have to say more out loud than was strictly necessary.

"The boys told me I should go to a 'Pride Event' and I think they've got their bums oot the windae," Scrooge said. The boys in question were not paying a whit of attention to the conversation, engrossed in talking about – spider-moon-iron-ninjas or whatever it was children talked about these days.

 

Apparently Donald agreed because his face turned five different shades of red as he swiped through the tablet-- But then rather than say anything, his nephew typed something into the device, and a moment later handed it back to Scrooge. The page Donald had pulled up was for the City of Duckburg's park services, and there was nobody in leather pants, topless or covered in glitter to be seen in the photos.

_ Pride in the Park is a family-friendly LGBT+ event in Duckburg Park on the Central Green, featuring live music, theater performances, popular local food trucks, an art auction benefiting LGBT+ charities, and much more! Going on our fifth year... _

Duckworth would have loved it. He supposed if he had to be dragged to  _ something _ this would be alright.

"Fine," Scrooge said, "I'll go to this Pride thing at the city park. It's on the 20 th ."

"Good for you, Uncle Scrooge," said Donald.

"I have conditions though!" Scrooge announced, setting the tablet aside, "We're going incognito – that means Donald’s car. I know what we talked aboot but I don't want to make a big fuss. I don't want us to get mobbed by the bloody paparazzi."

"Does that mean you're actually going to leave the house without your top hat?" Louie asked around a mouthful of chocolate croissant.

"I have other clothes," Scrooge groused, "I just like that hat.”

 

The coffee pot near Scrooge suddenly levitated, pouring itself to refill Scrooge’s cup. Cream and sugar also added themselves, as if held by invisible hands.

"It is a nice hat, although you should get a new one sometime this decade,” Duckworth said, the morning sun shining through his transparent form.

“My hat’s fine!”

“It’s going to fall apart on your head while you’re wearing it,” Duckworth replied mildly. Then, less mildly, “Also you could consider wearing something that  _ doesn’t _ make you look like you’re about to foreclose on an orphanage.” He turned his attention from Scrooge’s coffee to the rest of the table. "Would anyone like seconds?" Huey, Dewey and Louie all raised their hands even though none of them had finished what was on their plates yet.

"Duckworth, don't you dare," Scrooge scolded, "They have a butler for a couple of days and you've already got them spoilt rotten. If you want more, get aff your lazy bahoochies and go fetch it from the kitchen yerselves," Scrooge told the boys. "And not until you've cleared your plates!"

"Yes, Uncle Scrooge," the boys sighed in unison.

 

"So is Duckworth going to come with us?" Louie asked, stuffing the rest of his croissant into his mouth at once.

Scrooge and Duckworth exchanged looks. Duckworth gave an eloquent shrug. "I’m not currently capable of leaving the mansion grounds.”

“Whoa, so you’re trapped here?” Louie said.

“I wouldn’t call myself trapped, but you’re correct; I cannot leave.”

 

***

 

“Might I ask why you threw this out without even opening it?” Duckworth enquired, fishing an envelope from the garbage bin by Scrooge’s desk. 

“You might ask,” Scrooge said, not looking up from his stock report, “Cannae say I'm going to answer.”

 

An expertly wielded letter opener slit the envelope open, spilling the contents into Duckworth's waiting spectral hand. “It's an invitation to a new museum wing opening,” Duckworth said, “It's at the natural history museum. You love that place.”

“Eh, I haven't gone to one of those stupid galas in ages.”

“McDuck, it's your responsibility as the foremost citizen of Duckburg to support the city’s cultural institutions.” Duckworth attempted to push the invitation between Scrooge's nose and the stock report he was reading.

“Well, I don't want to go!” Scrooge said. He squinted down at the invitation. “Besides, look who’s sponsoring it! Flintheart Glomgold. Why would I subject myself to spending more time with that mangy old feather duster than I absolutely have to?”

“When was the last time you went to something like this?”

“I don't want to talk aboot it.”

 

Duckworth snatched the stock report away, forcing Scrooge to look at him. “Was it with me? Did you stop going because I died?”

“Yes, fine, it was! I didn't want to go alone and get reminded of what it used to be like.”

“Well, don't go alone then!”

“You're mad if you think I'm going to try and find myself a date at this age. And I’m certainly no paying someone to go with me!"

“I meant take the boys,” Duckworth said, looking amused by Scrooge’s outburst. “They’re old enough to be introduced to their social responsibilities, and maybe even enjoy themselves… Do it for me,” the ghost pleaded. “I can't go, so you'll just have to tell me how it was afterwards.”

 

“Ach, fine,” Scrooge knew when to accept defeat. “I'll go. The boys are going to need suits though--"

“I'll see to it,” Duckworth said with obvious pleasure. “You'll need a new suit as well.”

“I have a perfectly fine dinner jacket!”

“It's nearly twenty years old, not only is it out of style--”

“I dinnae get to be the richest man in the world by replacing functional clothing for no reason, Charlie! Menswear barely changes anyway, who would even notice if my lapels are too wide or no narrow enough?”

“Amos Fletcher of the Duckburg Times Style & Society column,” Duckworth sniffed, head held high. “He’ll notice.”

  
“Cannae let it go, eh?” Scrooge sighed, trying to get his stock report back, but Duckworth just levitated the paper higher. “So what if he used to make fun of how I dressed? I don't care.”

“Well I do,” Duckworth said, “It reflects poorly on me--”

“You’re dead! If I look bad now they can hardly blame you. The opposite really, they’ll say I’ve let myself go since you died.”

“You  _ have _ let yourself go,” Duckworth said, lifting the stock report even higher when Scrooge started to swing at it with his cane. “Stop that, we are having an adult conversation.”

Scrooge sat back down with a huff.

 

“I don’t want people to say things like that about you,” Duckworth said, more gently. “And I know you say that you don’t care, but you  _ do _ , you miserable old tightwad.”

“Oh, please, keep buttering me up,” Scrooge laughed.

“---You’ve also put on a little weight in the midsection, and lost muscle tone elsewhere,” Duckworth said, and Scrooge stopped laughing. “So a few adjustments to how your jackets fit wouldn’t be amiss.”

“You know I was being sarcastic, aye?” Scrooge said, “I didn’t mean you should keep taking the piss.”

“I never said you looked bad,” Duckworth said, smiling at him, and Scrooge was suddenly overcome with the intense desire to give the ghost anything he asked for.

“Fine. I’ll get a new tuxedo. Cannae wait to see how old Jack O’Flannel reacts to finding oot ghosts are real.”

 

***

 

It turned out that Jack O’Flannel, Scrooge’s prefered local tailor, fainted when presented with a ghost for the first time. Duckworth had fetched the smelling salts and after a brief explanation - and some reassurance that Duckworth wasn’t a hallucination or out to steal O’Flannel’s soul, the tailor had gotten back to business as if nothing had happened, in typical Duckburger fashion.

O’Flannel had made suits for Scrooge and Duckworth for many years, and he knew how things worked in the McDuck house. He wordlessly handed Duckworth a folder full of fabric samples, in various colors and textures, before getting to work measuring Scrooge and making his notes.

  
“I think the charcoal wool #1 for the main body,” Duckworth said. “And glossy black #1 for the lapels. Or maybe glossy navy #3? What do you think, Jack? His feathers have gotten whiter, I’m worried he’ll look washed out and sickly in a deep black.”

“As always, you’ve got a great eye for the details, Mr. Duckworth,” the tailor said, wrapping his measuring tape around  Scrooge’s neck. “Knowing Mr. McDuck’s taste, I’d go for the glossy black if he’s going to be in black tie formal. You know he prefers to keep to tradition.”

“You’re both daft,” Scrooge said, “That entire sample book is all the same bloody color.”

 

As had been their habit before Duckworth’s death, O’Flannel and Duckworth politely ignored Scrooge.

“So, for the shirt, what do you think of Warm Ivory, with the mother of pearl buttons?”

 

***

 

“Do promise you’ll behave while playing with the other children,” Duckworth said.

“Very funny,” Scrooge replied, checking himself over in the washroom mirror, comb still in hand. “I make no promises where Glomgold’s involved.”

“Well, at least try not to get blood on your new dinner jacket,” Duckworth said, plucking the comb from Scrooge’s hand and running it through the ruff of feathers on the duck’s cheeks. He turned Scrooge’s head up with a touch of spectral fingers on his chin, and combed through the rest of his face and head feathers until they looked sleek. Or as sleek as they could get. Scrooge really hadn’t been taking care of himself properly, his plumage was rather ragged.

“You’re no fun. How’m I supposed to break it in, then?”

“Oh, stop,” Duckworth smiled as he smoothed Scrooge’s lapels. “You look nice. Almost civilized-- Which we both know is a lie.”

“I’m glad to hear I pass muster,” Scrooge said, and he found himself staring up at Duckworth, unable to bring himself to look away. “Wish you could come to this party with me. It’s going to be dull without you.”

“I shall be with you in spirit.”

“Aw, haud yer wheesht.”

 

***

 

There were a lot of things Scrooge expected to deal with at a party thrown by Glomgold. Seeing Goldie O’Gilt for the first time in thirty years wasn’t one of them. She was beautiful of course, she was always beautiful, but she seemed younger than the last time he'd seen her. Her feathers had gone all gray back then, but now she was blonde once more and it didn't look like it had come out of a bottle. Scrooge had wasted enough of his life thinking about that golden plumage that he could recognize her natural colors.

He thought briefly of Duckworth, haunting the house and waiting for his return, trapped there because of his loyalty to Scrooge. Part of him wanted to turn away, to act like he hadn’t seen Goldie, cut off the impending interaction before it could even begin, but another part of him…He’d known Goldie on and off since 1896. There was something in him that would always be drawn to her, but when he failed to make a decision either way - go or stay - she spotted him, and that sealed his fate. As usual she was the one that took the initiative, approaching him with learned and polished grace that let her blend in with the upper class like the chameleon she was.

Even as part of him thrilled at the sight of her, felt his blood rush in anticipation of their usual banter, the inevitable violence and chaos that always came with her presence in his life, Scrooge also felt a great ache in his chest, at his failure to leave, his inability to ignore the temptation of this woman, no matter how many times experience had taught him that she couldn’t be trusted, even knowing that someone trustworthy, someone who had  _ never _ let him down, was waiting at home.

 

“Watch your wallets, boys,” Scrooge growled, but the warning was really more for Goldie than for his grand-nephews.  _ I’m not in the mood for your games, O’Gilt, leave me out of it _ , he tried to tell her with his eyes alone.

“Please, Scrooge! I wouldn’t steal from children,” Goldie said, watching him the way a mongoose eyed a snake. “Unless they had something I really wanted, or I was bored, or--”

“Goldie O’Gilt, the Ice Queen of Dawson,” Scrooge felt himself close the distance between them, couldn’t recall when he’d made that decision. He felt drawn, like water towards a drain. “I thought I heard the clatter of cloven hooves.”

“Scroogey McMoneybags, the Tightwad of Duckburg. That clatter was probably your brittle bones settling, ya gilded geezer!”

 

Goldie making fun of his brogue was nothing new, and certainly not enough to get a rise out of Scrooge. He was about to let loose with a retort when Glomgold suddenly shoved himself between them. 

“Oh, hello, Scrooge! This is my date, Goldie!”

_ Unsurprising, attaching herself to the richest available person at an event like this is a classic from the O’Gilt playbook,  _ Scrooge thought. Glomgold had tossed a proprietary arm around Goldie’s waist, and Scrooge started a mental countdown for how long before Goldie did something about it.

He hoped she would break his wrist. He knew objectively that he had no claim on Goldie, she’d never been his and never would be, but it still got under his skin, seeing Glomgold paw at her.  _ She’s not mine but she’s not yours either. _

  
“What’s that, you’re exes? How awkward this must be for you!” Glomgold was beside himself with mirth, and Scrooge wondered if he’d planned this entire evening just so he could do this, try to prod at both of them for a reaction, or was there anything else in play? Scrooge said nothing, just gripped his cane tighter and again tried to communicate with Goldie through excessive squinting and furtive eye-movements.

“Does it make your blood boil with jealousy, Scrooge?” Glomgold cackled, and Scrooge watched as Goldie delicately pinched the man’s wrist and removed his arm from around herself. A less violent rebuff than Scrooge had been hoping for.

 

The orchestra, which had until then been playing inoffensive but boring elevator music suddenly launched into an anemic tango _.  _ Goldie made eye contact with Scrooge, and tilted her head almost imperceptibly towards the dance floor.  _ Do you want to? _

“You’re just a sad third wheel! Deadwood--” Glomgold continued, oblivious to the silent conversation happening in front of him, until Goldie offered Scrooge her hand and Scrooge took it. They turned away from Glomgold as one, already in sync as they moved smoothly onto the dance floor.

  
“It’s been a long time, Scrooge,” Goldie said, pulling him close to her body as they began to move to the music.

“And yet it still feels too soon,” Scrooge sighed, half-heartedly going along with it, following her lead.

“Oof, your tango’s as rusty as your joints, Old Man,” Goldie complained, pulling him along to the beat of the music. “I’d get a better workout at a nursing home.”

Scrooge took the lead violently, spinning and dipping his partner with more brute strength than skill. He hadn’t danced with anyone in almost ten years, and it had been at least forty since he’d danced with Goldie.

“How’s this for rusty?!”

“Not bad,” Goldie said, smiling up at him like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, only a single strand of hair out of place. “But whoever taught you clearly didn’t make any effort to file off your rough edges.”

“Maybe they like me with my rough edges,” Scrooge said through his teeth.

“So there _is_ someone?” Goldie’s smile was predatory. She was digging for information. “Well, they have good taste,” Goldie pulled Scrooge away from the crowd and to a more open part of the dance floor. Her footwork was fancy and impeccable as always, she made Scrooge look better than he was with how smoothly she moved. Scrooge could feel all the eyes in the room on them. “All those rough edges were always what made you so… Interesting. Don’t be a sourpuss. It’s been almost a hundred years since I last left you in the lurch.”

 

“Seventy-one years,” Scrooge replied tersely.

“God, you’re such a bean-counter. Fine, seventy-one years. Don’t I get a reset after being good for so long?”

“You know, I have people in my life who have  _ never _ turned on me.”

“And you must be bored to death of them, what sickening goodie-two-shoes,” Goldie said. Scrooge was in the middle of another dip and very nearly dropped her. “Did I hit a nerve? What’s the matter, Moneybags? Your game’s off.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. When it’s about you, it’s always my business.”

  
“So, you’re looking very lovely tonight,” Scrooge tried to change the subject.

“Lord, next you’re going to ask me what I think about the weather.”

“You’re also looking younger than I remember,” Scrooge continued doggedly on.

“Yes,” Goldie sighed, “A lady never gives away her secrets... But I  _ did _ find a fountain of youth in Rongway.”

“Really?” Scrooge couldn’t help but be interested, “I was looking for that damn thing back in the 80s. Never found it.”

“Probably because I bottled it up for safe-keeping in ‘87. If you really want some maybe we can make a deal,” Goldie said slyly.

“...No, I donnae need it anymore,” Scrooge sighed.

“Yeah? Is that a fact? Because it sure feels like you could use some,” Goldie pinched at Scrooge’s upper arm. Where there had once been solid muscle there was now the skinny-flabby flesh of old age. Scrooge spun her sharply in his arms on the next beat of music, his temper bubbling close to the surface. She was goading him, wanted to get him angry and sloppy and he was ashamed of how well it was working.

“What’s the matter? Has it got an expiration date?” Scrooge asked, “Unexpected side effects that you hope to find a cure for by getting me in the same boat with you?”

“Seriously,” Goldie said, “What crawled up your kilt and died?”

“Nothing,” Scrooge said, “This is just how I am now.”

“No wonder you’re still single.”

“Quit yer havering, O’Gilt. What are you really up to?”

“Why do you always think I’m up to something?”

“Because wherever you go, you leave a flaming wreck in your wake.”

“Can’t start a fire without a spark,” Goldie said, sliding a hand up the back of Scrooge’s neck, grabbing a fistful of feathers as she dragged him in obscenely close. Their beaks were almost touching, and Scrooge felt himself tensing up, ready to fight her. The moment was shattered when a loud feedback screech erupted from the speaker system and the orchestra shuddered to a halt.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, hated rivals!” Glomgold had acquired a microphone from somewhere and was standing on the temporary stage that had been erected at the entrance to the new museum wing. He bared his teeth in an unnerving parody of a smile while making eye contact with Scrooge. Goldie pushed away from him as the room turned its attention to Glomgold.  “I’m proud to unveil this new permanent exhibit! Dug up by me very own oil crew in the Yukon, and generously donated to the Duckburg Natural History Museum in exchange for a modest tax write-off, the Glacier Monster of White Agony Creek!”

 

The curtain separating the main hall of the museum from the new wing dropped, and right in the center was an immense tank of yellow liquid, containing the withered and twisted remains of a wooly mammoth. It floated in the formaldehyde but was also held erect by some sort of internal suspension system, Scrooge assumed. Spears from some ancient hunters dotted its sides, skewering it from multiple angles. It was actually a rather impressive display, even if Glomgold had funded it.

“Wait,” Scrooge frowned, “Did he say White Agony Creek?”

“Uh-huuh,” Goldie smiled, giving Scrooge a sideways glance that communicated more than their entire prior conversation. Something was most  _ definitely _ up. “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

 

The party guests were being herded past the stage and into the new exhibit hall as Glomgold continued to talk about how the mammoth had been found, the preservation process and how they were already working to clone wooly mammoths in Glomgold Enterprises Genetic Engineering subsidiary, but Scrooge barely heard him, his focus was on Goldie. She was… waiting for something to happen…

Something did: a gunshot went off, and the lights went out, plunging them all into abrupt silence. A loud metallic crash vibrated through the air.

“All of you put your hands on your heads, this is a stick-up!” shouted a voice Scrooge recognized, but couldn’t immediately place.

  
“And that’s my cue to go,” Goldie said, grabbing Scrooge by the front of his shirt and dragging him into a hard, fast kiss. “Try not to have too much fun without me, Handsome.” When the lights came back up, Goldie was gone, and the party-goers were trapped inside of the new wing, a security gate blocking off the exit to the main hall. Scrooge immediately looked for an emergency exit - the new wing had to have at least one - but saw an unsavory looking fellow with a shotgun blocking it off - a Beagle Boy, by the looks of him.

 

“Nobody better try to play hero or you’ll lose more than just your wallets!” Big-Time Beagle shouted into the microphone, creating another feedback squeal. Glomgold was getting manhandled off to the side by two more Beagles dressed in caterer uniforms. It felt like the hall was positively crawling with Beagles all of a sudden, some disguised as caterers, others as museum staff. How the blazes hadn’t Scrooge noticed them?

Ah. Goldie, of course. She never did anything just for fun. She’d been keeping him distracted long enough to get him into this trap. But why?

 

“What do we do?” Huey asked, as the triplets crowded close to Scrooge, trying to keep him between themselves and the armed-to-the-teeth Beagles who were starting to frisk party-goers, grabbing wallets, purses and jewelry and shoving them into pillowcases that had seen better days.

“We cooperate,” Scrooge said with a frustrated sigh. Christ, he’d completely forgotten about the boys. Thank God they’d come back to his side and not gotten themselves hurt while he was preoccupied.

“What, seriously?” Louie asked, “Aren’t you gonna-- You know,” and he poked at Scrooge’s cane nervously. “I mean, you could take them, right?”

“And risk getting someone shot?” Scrooge asked, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Nothing anyone’s got on them tonight is worth that. Now stay behind me and don’t say a word. Do as they say.”

  
“Well well well, if it isn’t Scrooge McDuck,” Big-Time leered at him as two of his brothers grabbed Scrooge’s arms from behind, and third frisked him. “Not even gonna put up a fight huh? Just gonna bend over and take it?”

“At the moment, you do have the upper hand,” Scrooge said with a scowl as the Beagles laughed at him.

“We do, don’t we?” Big-Time said, obviously enjoying himself. His brothers turned up Scrooge’s billfold, a checkbook and the Barlow knife he carried with him everywhere, tossing it all carelessly into their sack. The wallet and checkbook were easily replaced, but the knife… _Forget it_ , Scrooge told himself. _You can get it back later._

“Enjoy it while it lasts, mutt.” Scrooge heard himself saying, mouth going on it’s own, hands flexing into fists behind his back.

“What was that?” Big-Time demanded, bristling at the slur, grabbing Dewey by the arm.

“Ow! Hey, lemme go!” Dewey said, squirming as another Beagle pawed through his pockets, retrieving a vinyl wallet with superheroes on it, tossing it into their bag of stolen goods. Scrooge felt his jaw pop from how hard he was clenching it.

“You better watch your mouth, McDuck!” Big-Time had grabbed Huey by the arm and was unclasping his watch while the boy watched with tearful fury. “You wouldn’t want us to take out our hurt feelings on these kids, now would you?”

 

Scrooge surged forward until his beak was practically touching Big-Time’s nose. The two Beagle boys trying to restrain him were dragged after. “Harm one feather on their heads and I’ll break every bone in your body.” The hall was suddenly intensely silent. Scrooge could hear his own voice ringing against the high stone ceilings. “And that’ll just be me warm-up.”

Big-Time looked like he was struggling to decide if he should call Scrooge’s bluff or not, and his brothers were looking to him for guidance. Big-Time broke eye contact first, probably remembering the stories his Ma had told him about Scrooge’s temper, the legendary violence he was supposedly capable of, and thinking better of baiting the old man further, even if it meant losing face in front of the rest of his gang.

“Eh, whatever,” Big-Time said, shoving Dewey away, “Kids ain't worth anything anyway.”

 

_ They're worth a hundred of you,  _ Scrooge thought acidly, and he gave a little quack of alarm when he was dragged backwards by the arms, and felt the cold bite of handcuffs clicking into place around his wrists.

“Just in case you get any stupid ideas before we’re done here,” Big-Time said, waving the handcuff key at Scrooge before he and his brothers moved on to turning out more pockets.

 

***

 

“That was really weird,” Louie said. The Beagle Boys had already made off with their loot, leaving their victims trapped inside of the museum. Police had arrived and were trying to break down the security gate and free them all. “They’re not usually this… Competent?”

“They’re working with O’Gilt,” Scrooge replied with certainty. He had been trying to squeeze his hands free of the cuffs for the past few minutes but all he’d gotten was chafed skin and feathers torn out for his trouble.

“What, your ex-girlfriend?” Louie asked.

“Yes, though I still cannae figure oot why, or what she’s after. This new exhibit is nothing but junk.”

“Well, the mammoth’s pretty cool,” Huey said, looking up at the mummified remains.

“I suppose,” Scrooge sniffed. It  _ was _ impressive, but more importantly than that…It came from White Agony Creek. That was the name of the plot of land where he’d finally struck it rich in the Klondike. Hands still cuffed behind him, he walked over to the mammoth display. Nothing seemed amiss there. Then again, what had he expected? For her to steal the damn head off the carcass in the few short seconds she’d had? Obviously not. He cast his gaze elsewhere, searching. It had to be something to do with the mammoth…

_ THINGS FOUND WITH THE GLACIER BEAST! These artifacts were found in and around the mammoth’s body,  _ proclaimed a sign in a glass case beside the primary display. Indian arrowheads, spears, a knife… Hm,  _ artifact removed for preservation _ , read a paper slip at the end of the display. Odd on a new exhibit. Scrooge leaned in closer so he could read the small print, squinting even with his glasses.

**_Fragment of a map_ **

_ White Agony Creek, Alaska _

  1. _1890_



_ Ink on deerskin leather _

_ Glomgold Collection, Gift of Glomgold Enterprises 72.2617 _

 

“Damnit!” Scrooge straightened up. He knew what Goldie was after, she’d be on her way to the house next. Hell, maybe she was already there, ransacking the place looking for Scrooge’s half of the map. “Lads! Has any one of you got a pen on you?”

“Yeah,” Huey replied, pulling a ballpoint pen out of his jacket pocket. “Why?”

“Unscrew it and get the ink cartridge out,” Scrooge said.

“Okay,” Huey said, holding up the thin plastic tube. “Now what?”

“Give it here,” Scrooge said, and once he had it in his cuffed hands, after a few false starts he inserted the pen tip into the keyhole. He started jiggering it around, hoping to pop the lock.

 

“Uh, are you trying to pick the lock?” Huey asked.

“No, I’m making tea,” Scrooge sneered.

“I’ve got my lock-picking merit badge from the Junior Woodchucks,” Huey said tentatively. “I could--”

“You’ve got your what? Get me out of these damn things then, don’t just stand around gawping!” Scrooge turned to offer his still-cuffed hands to the boy.

 

***

 

“Boys!” Donald cried, shoving his way past police officers taking statements. He grabbed all three triplets up in his arms and hugged them close. “That’s it, I’m never letting you out of the house after dark again!”

“Uncle Donald, we’re fine,” wheezed Louie. “Please put us down.”

“Oh, sorry,” Donald loosened his bone-crushing grip. “What happened?” he demanded.

“Beagle Boys,” Scrooge said, rubbing his raw wrists. “C’mon, we need to get home right away.”

“Excuse me, Mr. McDuck,” one of the officers said, “We’d like to take your statement before--”

“And I’d like to get home before the sun rises, if you want to have a statement, you can make an appointment with my secretary like everyone else. Launchpad, we’re leaving!” he waved his cane in the air to get the driver’s attention.

“What’s the rush?” Donald asked, attempting to hold three hands at the same time as he dragged the triplets after himself.

“They’re working with O’Gilt,” Scrooge said, as Launchpad bashed the Town Car into the fire hydrant in front of him, one wheel up on the curb. Unphased, Scrooge opened the door for himself, gesturing for Launchpad to stay in the driver’s seat as he climbed inside.

“Goldie? That old witch?” Donald asked, herding the triplets in after Scrooge, and closing the door behind himself as he sat next to his uncle.

  
“Home Launchpad! On the double!”

“Can-do, Mr. McDee,” Launchpad reversed into a parked squad car, and then took off at speed before the cops could start shouting.

 

“So is anyone gonna explain what the deal with Goldie is?” Dewey asked.

“She’s a bad lady,” Donald said, in his  _ you’re too young to know about this  _ voice, which, coincidentally, was the voice he used 70% of the time around the kids.

“She’s a backstabbing viper who’s only oot for herself,” Scrooge said, squeezing his cane tight enough that his knuckles cracked. “She’s after something of mine and set this whole damn gala up just to make sure I was out of the house long enough for her to find it.”

“What’s she after?” Donald asked.

“Half of a treasure map-- She’s got the other half now, it was in Glomgold’s stupid exhibit.”

“Wait, so what’s the big deal?” Huey asked, “If she’s just after the map - you’re super rich, it’s not like you need more money. Why not just let her have it?”

“I’m going to ignore the part where someone that shares blood with me implied someone could ever have too much money,” Scrooge said, “And focus on the fact that it’s a point of pride! It’s a matter of principle. Nobody steals from Scrooge McDuck!”

“The Beagle Boys stole from you tonight,” Louie pointed out.

“And I’m going to make them regret it all the way to their graves,” Scrooge said.

“What did they take?” Donald asked.

“My billfold,” Scrooge said, “Huey and Louie’s as well. Huey’s watch. My knife.”

 

“Huh,” Donald said, a frown creeping onto his face as he watched the boys. Scrooge recognized that look; It was the slow-burning, grudge-holding version of the infamous McDuck temper. They were more well-known for their sudden explosions, but Scrooge knew from personal experience just how long a McDuck could hold a grudge. 

“And we’re home!” Launchpad announced, his front wheel jumping the curb into the fountain in front of the house. Scrooge was already out the door and racing for the front door, brandishing his cane in front of himself like a sword. Donald followed at a safe distance, keeping the boys behind himself no matter how much they tried to sneak around him to get closer to the action.  
“Uh...Goodnight!” Launchpad called after them.

 

***

 

The front door was wide open. 

“Beakley!” Scrooge shouted as he stomped through the front hall. “Webbigail! Duckworth!” The lack of response made the whole manor feel eerie and too-quiet in a way it hadn’t been ever since Donald and his boys had moved in.

Scrooge knew that Duckworth would never abandon his post and considered it his duty to protect the house, so the fact that he wasn’t answering him meant Goldie had done something to him. She’d no doubt done something to Beakley and Webbigail too, but Scrooge didn’t think she’d hurt them too badly. She certainly wouldn’t _kill_ a child, or murder their guardian before their eyes. But a stubborn ghost that couldn’t be knocked out or be persuaded into surrender? Who knew what she would do to get around him. She could have exorcised Duckworth completely.

Scrooge could see the signs of struggle everywhere, crossbow bolts embedded in the walls, broken furniture, things thrown out of place. He felt his feathers bristling with a mix of outrage and fear. Blood pounded in his temples as he charged up the stairs, and threw open his bedroom door.

Goldie sat on Scrooge’s bed, wearing one of his hats, looking bored. She lit up when she saw him. “About time, Old Man.”   

Under most circumstances such a tableaux might have been thrilling, but right now Scrooge’s heart was too far up his throat for him to appreciate the view. The room looked like a bomb had hit it. Furniture and clothing and other miscellaneous objects were everywhere, the curtains were torn, and one of the stained glass windows was shattered… But worst of all, the carpet had been rolled up and it looked like the pentagram had been set ablaze, the wood charred and scorched all over.

 

***

 

Goldie only had a few seconds to climb up onto the bed and strike a pose after hearing Scrooge’s bellows from the entry hall. The man burst into the bedroom looking positively feral. A promising start for the evening.

Less promising was the gaggle of children hot on his heels. She hadn’t come here to babysit and hand-hold and she had hoped that Scrooge would have ditched the rugrats by the time he found her. Thankfully, what looked like Scrooge’s nephew Donald was on the kids like a sheepdog, dragging them away.

“No fair, we wanna see what happens!” the one in green protested.

“Yeah, things are about to get interesting!” the one in the red shirt said.

“Nuh-uh! This isn’t for kids!” Yep, that was definitely Donald Duck, it might have been decades since she’d encountered him, but Goldie would have recognized that speech impediment anywhere. He yelled at the children some more as he herded them out, but she didn’t really care enough about what  _ exactly _ he was saying to try and decipher it. The door slammed shut behind him and she was left alone with Scrooge.

Perfect.

“Where are Beakley and Webbigail?” Scrooge demanded.  
  
Or maybe not. She’d been expecting her charms to get her past the inevitable indignation that always came when she broke into wherever Scrooge was living at any given time, but it seemed like he was in an ornery mood.

“Where’s the other half of the map?” she shot back. Seeing Scrooge’s bristling, she rolled her eyes and gestured at the large armoire. “They’re fine, just a little tied up at the moment.”

 

Scrooge’s eyes darted between Goldie and the armoire. She could tell he didn’t want to take his eyes off her, but was forced to do so to get the armoire doors open. The hog-tied Beakley and the kid that had been with her tumbled out of the armoire and onto Scrooge when he opened the door, and he worked quickly to ungag them before starting in on the knots.

“Fucking untie me already, you bastard,” Beakley spat breathlessly, ripping her arms free as soon as she could, nearly knocking Scrooge’s glasses off in the process. “I cannot  _ believe _ you let that woman--”

Scrooge left her to finish untying herself as he moved on to helping the girl, Webbigail. All the kids running around the mansion were a surprise to Goldie. Scrooge didn’t particularly  _ hate _ children but he certainly wasn’t a fan either. Since when was he operating a daycare out of his house? At this point Goldie was half expecting to open a dresser drawer and find some eggs. Could it be that the man had gotten domestic in his old age?

  
“The map’s none of your business, O’Gilt,” Scrooge said. “The whole thing was mine to begin with!”

“Are you really in any position to moralize at me?” Goldie asked. “Sure, you didn’t steal it, but how fair was that trade you made with Koda Blackriver when you bought that map? What did you give him for it? A bottle of scotch and fifty cents?”

“That was a lot of money back in those days!” Scrooge protested.

“No it wasn’t, not for what that map is worth, and you know it,” Goldie said. Scrooge didn’t have a chance to respond because the Beakley woman was pushing past him with murder in her eyes. Thankfully Scrooge blocked her with his cane, clearly not about to let her go first.

  
Goldie wasn’t afraid to go another round with Beakley, this wasn’t the first time she’d fought the spy-turned-housekeeper, but if she had to choose who she was going to get in a knock-down brawl with tonight, she prefered Scrooge. Beakley just wasn’t her type, she liked her women a little more womanly, less built like a circus strongman.  
  
“I’ll handle her,” Scrooge said.

“I’m sure you’d  _ love  _ to handle her,” Beakley replied, her mouth pinching together. “But you--”

“You should tend to Webby,” Scrooge said, and Goldie thought Beakley was going to strangle him… And as entertaining as that would have been to watch, Goldie had other items on her agenda that she wanted to attend to. She slid off the edge of the massive four-poster bed and smoothed out her dress.

“There’s plenty of me to go around,” Goldie said, “You and I can always hook up again some other time, Agent 22.”

_  
I really shouldn’t tease her, _ Goldie thought, watching the woman’s fists flex helplessly at her sides. Those hands could definitely snap a person’s neck like a toothpick.

“One of these days I’m going to--”

“Get in line,” Goldie said with a smile. “Scroogey’s right, take care of your kid. Things are about to get a lot less family-friendly in here.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Beakley replied dryly. “You’ve got no self control when it comes to that woman--” she said to Scrooge.

“Yes, yes, I know you’re very disappointed with me,” Scrooge said to Beakley, irritation obvious in his tone.

  
“Granny?” the girl said, so quietly Goldie almost missed it. That little voice had the miraculous effect of sapping the fire right out of Beakley though, and the woman gave Goldie one last vicious glare before she turned away, put her hand on the kid’s shoulder.

“Everything’s fine, I’m not hurt,” she said softly. “Are you alright, dear?”

“I--uh, my shoulder feels kind of funny. I think maybe it’s dislocated.”

A lifetime ago, Goldie might have felt a pang of guilt, she felt the ghost of it haunting her now, but she banished it viciously. It wasn’t her fault that that the Beakley woman had fallen on the kid when Goldie had knocked her out.

“Is she going to be alright?” Scrooge asked, eyes darting back and forth between Beakley and Goldie. “Do we need to call a doctor?”

“It’s fine,” Beakley said tersely, “I’ll take care of it, as long as you take care of…” she trailed off without finishing but Goldie had a feeling she wanted to say  _ this trash _ . She ushered the girl out of the room and Goldie nearly sighed with relief as the door clicked shut behind them.

 

“ _ Finally _ ,” Goldie said, “I thought they’d never leave,” she turned towards Scrooge, but her flirtatious comments died on her tongue. She could read a room and she could read Scrooge McDuck. The old fart was  _ furious _ with her, shoulders all bunched up into his neck like he was seconds away from decking her. 

The thing was, she had no idea why. Had that much changed since the last time she’d seen him?

“What did you do to Duckworth, O’Gilt?” Scrooge said, advancing towards her.

“Duckworth, Duckworth…Isn’t he your valet? I haven’t seen him.”

“He’s dead,” Scrooge said, tone icy. “He haunts the house. And he wouldn’t have let you in without a fight.”

 

“Oh,” Goldie mentally shuffled around the things she knew and got a better picture of what was happening. “Yes, there was a demon or-- poltergeist or something in my way. I dismissed it. Was that really Duckworth? Death hasn’t done him any favors.”

“Dismissed?!” Scrooge exploded. Goldie felt her own temper rising to match the old miser’s. Since when did he care about his employees? About the children of employees? She’d seen him leave countless people to fend for themselves without a second thought for their wellbeing if there was treasure and adventure to be had. Scrooge was ruthless. All this faked concern was getting under her skin.

“Yes, dismissed!” Goldie spat back. “How was I supposed to know that monster was your pet butler? And anyway, I know you’re a cheapskate, but this is a new low for you! Using black magic to keep the dead enslaved? Really, McDuck?”

 

But Scrooge wasn’t even paying attention to her anymore. He’d walked past her and was picking something up off the floor - a painting, Goldie realized after a moment. When he turned it around in his hands it crumbled a little, the frame falling off the canvas. With a start, Goldie realized it was a portrait of Duckworth. 

“What the Sam Hill’s gotten into you?” Goldie demanded. Scrooge didn’t respond, just stood there looking at the painting in his hands. “You’re acting like I killed somebody. All I did was break your little binding spell and set him free.”

Scrooge turned a withering gaze her way. “He was here by  _ choice _ , he wanted to be here! If you’ve banished him and I cannae bring him back again, you may as well have killed him.”

 

Dumbstruck, Goldie stood back and watched as Scrooge set the painting down in the center of the ruined pentagram and began to prepare some sort of ritual. He retrieved an armful of candles, a knife, a piece of chalk and a battered old Ouija board from a locked steamer trunk under the bed. With the chalk he drew a circle around the painting of Duckworth, the candles went around the circle, and he set the Ouija board down on top of the painting.

Scrooge rolled up one sleeve, revealing a bald patch from elbow to wrist, the skin pink and red where old cuts hadn't quite healed. Using blood for magic was serious business, and it looked to Goldie like the old coot had been doing it for some time now. He cut into his arm without a flinch and carefully dripped the blood inside of the chalk circle, using a handkerchief to wipe off the knife and then apply pressure to the wound.

He began an incantation: “Adeoque nulli animum, revertetur in terram suam!” The flames on the candles flickered and jumped, growing taller and brighter with every word Scrooge said, as if they were straining and reaching for him. “Adeoque nulli animum, locutus est ad me.”

Suddenly the spots of blood on the floor shivered, as if some vibration has hit them, and the blood moved, spread itself out in a thin circle parallel to the chalk circle. That thin line of blood continued to move, and complex arcane symbols drew themselves on the floor, far more delicate and precise than anyone could possibly draw by hand, especially with a medium as sticky and hard to use as blood.

 

Goldie was no stranger to magic, exorcisms and things like that, but she wasn't a professional either… And until this moment she would have said the same about Scrooge. It was abundantly obvious that Scrooge had passed from an amateur to at least a practiced hobbyist. How long had Duckworth been dead? How long had Scrooge been fooling around with black magic to keep him around? 

“Charles Duckworth II, locutus est ad me,” Scrooge completed the spell, blood-smeared knife still in the hand that was clamped over his forearm. He was watching the Ouija board intently for any sign of movement.

  
The heart-shaped wooden planchette began moving slowly at first, sliding along the surface of the board until it came to rest on YES. Then the planchette continued to move, from letter to letter, spelling out T-R-O-U-B-L-E-S-O-M-E-W-O-M-A-N.

“Oh, thank God,” Scrooge said, tension draining out of his shoulders. “You scared the downy feathers right off me.”

 

“So you got an answer from the other side, he’s fine,” Goldie said, “Aside from his questionable taste in where to spend his afterlife. Was Hell too pleasant?” She approached him cautiously. She hadn’t been able to find the other half of the map while ransacking the mansion, so she had to rely on Scrooge to show her where it was, or agree to working together. Scrooge tensed up as she drew closer, turned to scowl at her. “Oh, stop being such a big baby about everything,” Goldie sighed, brushing a loose strand of golden hair away from her face in the way she knew always got him distracted. She tugged the ceremonial knife out of Scrooge’s now unresisting hand, set it down on a nearby dresser.

  
“Come on. Let me have a look,” she said in a no-nonsense voice, pulling the blood-stained handkerchief away from Scrooge’s arm. Goldie could hear the wooden planchette scraping wildly across the Ouija board’s surface, but couldn’t see what the ghost was saying with Scrooge in the way.  
  
“What have you been doing to yourself, Scroogey?” She asked quietly as she ripped the handkerchief into strips and tied them around his forearm. “Black magic? Commanding the dead? That sort of thing never ends well.”

 

Scrooge didn’t answer her question, avoided eye contact as he rolled the sleeve of his tuxedo back down over the bandage. “Yes, he’s fine. No thanks to you,” Scrooge said. There was something off about the way he was looking at her, the way he was standing, talking. Goldie cocked her hip to one side and gave him her best pouty look.

“Come now, Scroogey. It’s not my fault I didn’t recognize him. Can you really blame me for thinking he was a monster?”

“Stop calling him that,” Scrooge said. “You came here for the other half of the map, yeah?” Before she could answer, Scrooge’s hand shot out and he snagged the top hat off of her head. He shoved his arm inside of it, and with a ripping sound, pulled something back out. Of course he’d hidden it in the lining, why hadn’t she thought of that?  _Maybe I wasn’t really trying my hardest. Maybe the idea of getting to go on an adventure with Scrooge again was the real reason I went to all this trouble..._

  
“This map?” Scrooge said, dangling the scrap of faded leather between them. It took every ounce of Goldie’s self control not to try and grab it from him.

“Yes,” Goldie said, her eyes on Scrooge rather than the map. Once upon a time, Goldie had been able to read him like a book, but now it felt like there was something else between them, time and distance and change.

“Fine. Take it,” Scrooge said, handing it to her. Goldie stared at the map, then at him.

“Is this some kind of trick?” she asked. “You do remember what this is, don’t you? You haven’t gone senile on me?”

“I remember,” Scrooge said, “It’s a map to the last great gold vein in the Klondike. Something the natives described as a mountain of gold.”

“So then why the hell are you just giving it up? What do you know that I don’t?” Goldie asked. “It’s  _ treasure. _ You’re Scrooge McDuck,” she hesitated, then added, “I would have gone halves with you.” She almost believed herself as she said it.

“Right,” Scrooge scoffed. “Well, maybe I  _ am _ getting old. I think I have enough gold for the time being. Richest man in the world, you know.” He set his hat on his head and put his hand on the back of Goldie’s neck, firmly guiding her towards the exit.

 

Down the hallway. Down the stairs, through the great hall and to the front door. “You’ve gotten what you came after so I think we’re done here,” he said, unceremoniously pushing her out the door. “I’ve got family to tend to and a house to put in order. Goodnight, O’Gilt.”

She couldn’t quite believe it when the door slammed behind her.

 

***

 

After checking up on Beakley and Webby, Donald and his boys and satisfying himself that everyone was alright, Scrooge returned to his bedroom. The place was a mess.

“Still with me, Duckworth?” Scrooge asked. The planchette skittered off the edge of the Ouija board excitedly before coming back to sit on YES. “Are you hurt?”

NO.

“Good,” Scrooge picked his way over the remains of a broken table and chairs to get to the dresser beside the bed. It was where Duckworth had kept his things before his death. Scrooge had never had the heart to move any of it.

 

He was glad to see that although Goldie had clearly rifled through the dresser, she’d apparently not found anything that caught her fancy. Everything was mostly still in place. He closed the drawers and thumbed through the stack of vinyl records, pulling out Duckworth’s favorite Irving Berlin album. The phonograph crackled to life as the record began spinning and soon the room was filled with the sweet sound of strings and a lone voice crooning soppy sentimentality that Scrooge personally found tedious. He was more of a pub song sort of man.

With the music filling the silence, he set about making the room fit for habitation again. The things that had been broken or ruined during what he imagined must have been a ferocious battle, he piled to one side. Everything that had survived, he put back in their usual places - save for the painting of Duckworth that was still on the floor with the Ouija board and candles.

“Goldie’s working with the Beagle Boys,” Scrooge told Duckworth while he worked. “And probably Glomgold, too.”

B-I-R-D-S-O-F-A-F-E-A-T-H-E-R, Duckworth replied via the planchette.

“I doubt it’s a long term partnership, she’ll burn them too.”

YES.

“The Beagles held up the gala. Took some things from the boys. Took my Barlow.”

The Ouija board gave an angry little rattle, shaking against the painting, and that was almost enough to make Scrooge smile about the whole thing. It seemed he wasn’t the only one upset about the situation.

T-R-O-G-L-O-D-Y-T-E-S. Only Duckworth would go to the effort to spell out such a word through a damn Ouija board.

 

Scrooge finished cleaning up, aside from the mess on the floor where Goldie had burnt the magic circle. He would have to either repair it or find a new spot in the house to place it. Either way, it was a task best left for the morning. 

The record had reached its end, so Scrooge flipped it over to play the other side as he got ready for bed.

“We’re going to have to do something about this,” Scrooge said, hanging his tuxedo up in the closet. It felt odd to do it for himself again. Duckworth had only been back for two weeks and he was already used to the man tending to him. “It’s an intolerable situation. You, trapped in the house, vulnerable to anyone with a novice’s knowledge of sorcery.”

He saw the planchette moving again as he left the closet. D-O-N-T-T-R-O-U-B-L-E-Y-O-U-R-S-E-L-F.

 

“You’re daft if you think I’ll leave it alone,” Scrooge scoffed, pulling on his nightgown and shutting off the lights before climbing into bed. “I’m going to find a way to keep you connected to the living world, preferably where I can keep an eye on you at all times!”

 

He heard the planchette scraping against the wood again, but from the bed he had no hope of seeing what Duckworth’s response was. A moment later he felt the cold, tingling presence that he now recognized as Duckworth settling on the bed beside him, in Duckworth’s usual spot.  
  


“Goodnight, Charlie,” Scrooge said, a soft feeling he was unaccustomed to bubbling up inside him. He felt a cold chill on his arm, where he’d cut himself earlier. He fell asleep easily and dreamt of Duckworth.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter: Where the hell was Duckworth during The Golden Lagoon of White Agony Plains?


End file.
